


The Moons Are Full and the Sky Is Clear

by red_at_three (elle_stone)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, New Vulcan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:45:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11862147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/red_at_three
Summary: Jim and Spock need to keep their relationship discreet while working on New Vulcan. It's harder than Jim thought it would be.





	The Moons Are Full and the Sky Is Clear

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "I'm tired of being your secret," requested by superplyushka on tumblr.

For the first few days, it’s easy to keep himself in check, until Jim realizes that discretion on Vulcan is not like discretion on the _Enterprise_. He _knows_ discretion. He understands holding back because he does it all the time. When they’re on a mission, he’s the Captain and Spock is his First. They keep separate quarters. They behave professionally, no matter where they are. Even during chess games in the rec room, when all he wants is to reach out for Spock’s fingers, just to see what sound he’ll make—he’s professional.  

But then they get back to San Francisco, back to their apartment, and they ditch their uniforms, and their ranks, and their jobs, until they’re just Jim and Spock again. Knowing he has California waiting for him is what makes missions bearable, sometimes. 

And knowing he’ll be returning to his ship before long is what makes being on Earth bearable, so overall, he’s struck a good balance. 

On New Vulcan, everything is different. They’re here on official business, and even though they aren’t actually on duty every second of the day, the line between work hours and off hours isn’t quite so clearly drawn. He represents the Fleet even in his civilian clothes. Plus, he’s a flagship Captain, and Spock’s possibly the most famous Vulcan in the Federation, so eyes are almost always on them. And two of those eyes belong to Spock’s father, which adds another layer of awkward sheen to the whole thing. 

It’s the worst of both worlds: all of the discomfort of being planetside, without the sanity-sustaining presence of Spock there next to him when he goes to sleep at night. 

Maybe it would be easier if he knew just what their new rules were, but not even a crash course of library research, aided by Uhura and by Spock himself, could truly prepare him for the surreal experience of actually living with Vulcans day-by-day. They’re no more complicated than humans, Uhura reminds him. And that’s true. But they’re complicated in a different way, in a way he has no instinct for: New Vulcan isn’t Iowa, and no matter how far in his rearview Riverside falls, Iowa’s still what’s in his bones. 

He hides behind formality, just to be safe, and always keeps his hands behind his back.  

And sometimes at night he sends Spock messages, which feels a little silly, because Spock’s just one temporary-cabin away. Most of the notes are so innocuous they could have been sent between any two reasonably friendly officers: they’re not strictly professional—not the formal, curt missives one might expect between strict colleagues—but they’re not emotional, either. They discuss their experiences, catch each other up on times they were apart, compare notes on the colony’s most recent developments, discuss New Vulcan’s prospects. Spock is remarkably candid, by his standards—by, Jim reminds himself, Vulcan standards generally—but not in a way your average Iowan would notice. He is not affectionate, and, because he hasn’t figured out yet how to be tender through the medium of words on a screen, neither is Jim. But it’s enough. Almost. Mostly. 

One night it’s not and, hot and unable to breathe in the thin air, he wanders outside to look up at the moons. It’s late and even the Vulcans are asleep. The moons are full and the sky is clear, and it’s deeply peaceful, being so alone: almost the whole planet deserted, the vastness of space almost in reach. 

He doesn’t actually hear footsteps approaching, but still he’s not startled to hear Spock’s voice behind him. “Are you having trouble sleeping, Captain?” 

“My cabin’s a bit hot,” he answers, turning, sticking his hands in his sleep pants pockets. It’s odd to see Spock wearing so little, comparatively, to bed. The _Enterprise_ was set up for a human crew, and Spock will often bundle up, especially off-duty. In their apartment in San Francisco, they try to compromise, setting the temperature slightly too hot for Jim and slightly too cold for Spock, and it works.  

But then, this is Spock’s climate. This is his ideal. 

He walks over, standing closer than he would if they were still just friends—maybe this means something on Vulcan, maybe it’s a gesture loud and bold and strong, but for Jim, it just causes a different sort of heat to crawl up the back of his neck, and makes his fingers twitch again—and tilts his head back to the sky. He’s thinking about Vulcan. Jim knows this without having to ask. It’s not that he can read Spock’s mind, just that he knows him, knows how to read all of the slight details of his posture and expression. He has become so fluent in him that he doesn’t need words to understand that Spock is remembering his real home, and that memories like that can’t be captured in speech. It’s a bad time to say _I’ve missed you_ but it’s all that Jim can think. 

He waits for Spock’s gaze to fall back down to their feet again, then asks, “What about you, Mr. Spock? Bout of insomnia?” 

It’s not a question he entirely expects Spock to dignify with a response. And at first he doesn’t. Then he glances over to Jim again and says, “The children who are born on New Vulcan will grow up with two moons,” which is an answer to Jim’s question, though it would sound, to someone who doesn’t know Spock as well, more like an evasion. These are the sort of thoughts that have been keeping him awake, he’s saying. And he wants Jim to know them. 

“They’ll still be Vulcans,” Jim reminds him. He knows that it’s small consolation: they’ll be Vulcans who will never know the planet he grew up on, the landmarks he visited, the sky he looked to, the constellations he memorized. His people have survived, but barely; in such small numbers and with so much of what once defined them destroyed that it’s hard not to ask—Jim can imagine, without really understanding—who they are, really, as a people, at their core.  

“I know,” Spock answers, like he doesn’t, his voice so quiet and distant that Jim can’t help but close the last gap between them, put his hand on Spock’s shoulder gently. 

Spock immediately shrugs it off and steps away. 

It’s frustrating, and it brings up every other frustration in their relationship, and in this mission, and in himself, so he turns on his heel and paces over to the cabin wall again, and then back, like he’s trying to work off some steam. “There’s no one out here, you know. We’re probably the only two people awake in the whole settlement.” 

Spock arches an eyebrow, like he’s holding back his own irritation, and tilts his head. “The chances that that is true are—” 

“You know what I mean.” He flexes his fingers, then holds up his hands, palms out. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t. It’s a bad time.” It’s always a bad time, though, he doesn’t add. He doesn’t want to be selfish, that’s what it comes down to. But it’s hard to know how to be comforting when a whole arena of communication is cut off to him. 

Spock doesn’t answer for a long time. He just stares with such intensity that Jim has to remind himself that Spock’s telepathy depends on touch. That he’s not staring into Jim’s mind at this very moment, rummaging through his thoughts. 

“I’m just—tired of being your secret,” he tries, this time, imperfect words to fill the silence. 

What he now recognizes as confusion passes over Spock’s face. “There is nothing secret about our relationship. We declared it to Starfleet. My father is aware of it.” 

Jim’s awareness of Sarek’s awareness has caused him to overthink every interaction between them, even the smallest, simplest, and most formal of communications, but he’s never shared any part of this internal calculation with Spock. He might declare it irrational. Or, worse, he might not. 

“I know,” he admits. “Technically. But between following the Fleet’s rules and following Vulcan rules—” 

“But you are more concerned with Vulcan’s traditions.” 

Spock has arched his eyebrow up, like he’s caught Jim in something, an admission or a lie, but Jim just shrugs. “Yeah. I am. Because I’m still working on understanding them. It’s… _frustrating–_ ” 

He’s never felt more selfish, standing here, trying to explain how he just wants to reach out sometimes and touch his partner’s arm or wrist but he can’t because he’s a professional and an alien here and there is propriety to consider, and politeness, and his job—but at least his home planet’s still standing and his race is billions strong. What do his problems, merely awkwardness and social uncertainty, matter when Spock is kept awake at night thinking about the moons? 

So he cuts himself off and steps back again, leaning against the makeshift cabin wall with his hands securely behind his back. “Forget it.” 

He stares down at the ground, which is a beautiful red-gold color that no Earth soil could ever be, and waits for Spock to answer him, but without any sense of urgency at all. He’s sure it will just be to change the subject. 

Instead, it is to admit, “I have been more cautious than is necessary, at times. I only wish to project the proper image. Our situation is delicate, you understand that.” 

Jim glances up again. “Because we’re Starfleet officers?” They’ve been on New Vulcan long enough for him to be able to recognize some avenues of appropriate affection between Vulcan partners, or among families. Certain touches, certain discreet attitudes. He can’t say he entirely understands them. But he hasn’t so much as let his fingertips graze Spock’s arm in days. 

Spock inclines his head, a slight agreement. “And because you are human. And I am half-human.” 

It’s hard for Jim to believe that any of the Vulcans they’ve met, unfailingly polite and accepting, would care at all that Spock’s partner is from Earth. The group currently on New Vulcan is small, generally elite: mostly council members, scientists, architects. Most of them have known Spock for years, have known his parents for even longer, were friends with his mother. 

“You really think that matters to anyone we’re working with?” he asks, voice open and honestly curious. 

“In this environment, I think it matters a great deal.” 

Jim could ask what he means by _this environment_ but the somber, weary expression around Spock’s eyes tells him enough. 

“All right,” he says, soft and quiet, and nods. “It’s only a few more weeks, right?” And tries to smile. 

“Yes,” Spock agrees. But before Jim can turn around to head back in, he holds out his hand, two fingers out, and Jim hesitates, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder. Then he reaches out instead and presses his fingers to Spock’s fingers.  

A shock of longing passes through him, familiar and alien all at once. Someone he loves calling out to him. 

He doesn’t know yet how to answer but he hopes that the look on his face, when his eyes meet Spock’s, is enough.


End file.
